


heaven help me

by Cube_ (CubeWatermelon)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, No Lesbians Die, The Author Regrets Nothing, can't believe thats a tag i love it, kinda new to this writing beeswax so sorry for any mistakes, lars is cool but you know who's cooler? the physical manifestation of the universe, little bit angsty at the start but dont worry things get better, no beta we die like men, shmi deserved better than as some kids tragic backstory, working off wikipedia and movie knowledge folks so strap in its gonna be a ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 16:09:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18759838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CubeWatermelon/pseuds/Cube_
Summary: Anakin might have never had a father, but he did have a mother---Or, a story about how Shmi gets her own character, a story separate to the clusterfuck that is the skywalker legacy, and a chance to see her children live free in a way she couldn’t





	heaven help me

**Author's Note:**

> aka, the fic titled ruh roh here we go in my files. Hope you enjoy!

She wakes up, young and wrong-footed, with dried tracks down her cheeks still soft with baby fat. She doesn’t remember what she was dreaming about, but as she rubs her face red, she knows she’d rather forget, breathing carefully controlled lest she draws the unwanted attention of the matron that patrols the halls. It is late, and she is only one of many, a number, her worth yet undecided. The hum of the ship’s engine sits like a blanket around her, and she counts the seconds between the heavy chunk-chk-chunk of the motors working hard to send this steel shell across the vacuum of space. 

She’s counted twenty-three repetitions, each a regular fifteen seconds apart before her eyelids start to droop. It is a lullaby that Shmi, barely five years old, has learnt until it is like another heartbeat against hers, ingrained and unwilling to be uprooted. After three weeks on this cage, three weeks of learning how to cook, to clean, to be present and yet _not present_ , of realizing that the credits her mother took weren’t going towards a new toy, that this wasn’t simply just a quick trip and then she’ll be back in papa’s arms, thin but warm. After having something stuck onto her wrists, which burns on some days and on others, sits like one of her sister’s bracelets. After all that, her lullaby with no words seems to be the only thing that can get her back to sleep, chases away the prickle of salt water along her eyes that could only bring the wrath of the matron. 

____

____

She has learnt not to cry, quickly.

When she finally reaches that state of half-sleep, when the hum finally reaches right down to her marrow and she can escape the ire of an adult with sharp nails and an even sharper tongue, she thinks to herself: one day I’ll be free and I will laugh and laugh and laugh.

(she’ll never realize that she shouldn’t have been able to hear the engine or the motors, just like she’ll never remember what upset her into waking)

If she doesn’t live up to the matron’s strict expectations, she will be sent to the same place as Teeiop went, never to return. When she asked the other children, older and taller and able to reach the sinks without assistance, where he went they hushed her and let her fold the warm laundry, a small luxury, in exchange for never asking again. She doesn’t. Instead, she comforts herself with the fact that the matron sees her quick feet and steady hands as “easy green” because she doesn’t want to go where Teeiop went as he was too loud and burped too much for her liking. It makes her smile, and when she confides with a girl with four arms and twice the amount of muscles she has, that she thinks she’s winning this harsh trial and that she’ll finally be allowed to go, the girl blinks her one eye and sends her off to fold the warm laundry. 

 

\----

 

They touch down on a planet, and she doesn’t even get a lungful of fresh air before they’re lifting off again. 

This happens several more times until Shmi learns again, that hope should not be spent on losing dogs. She locks it deep inside in retaliation, and hums her space flight lullaby, waking up with dried tears and less resentment a child in her predicament should’ve had. 

Then again, Shmi was never just some child.

 

\----

 

She’s fourteen, a rough estimate because space travel makes things like keeping track of age difficult, and she has just been sold for two thousand creds. Its for a desert planet, and it sits on the Outer Rim with its two suns blazing upon scorched sand. Her new owner grunts at her and two others, before dragging their chains onto a rickety old contraption which she’s never seen before. When it begins to move, surprisingly fast, she has to lower her face to hide her excitement, instead focuses on looking passive and pretty enough to blend. She’s seen what too pretty children are told to do, and never in her life has she been so glad for her plain hair and plain skin and plain, plain everything. Having lost track of how many hands she’s been passed from, ever since she was first auctioned off at seven-maybe-eight on an orange rock of a planet, she knows that first impressions make an impact, and she cannot afford to be seen as some sort of untrained slip of a girl whose tongue still needs to be lashed. It’s cost many others a dear price, and she is lucky to have never needed to bargain for better consequences. 

She refuses to trip up now, and as she casts her eyes on the rising sun which makes the desert sparkle and gleam like cut kyber, she hoards the knowledge that she must be one step closer to being free.

It’s a heady thought, and it carries her through the better part of the next few months. Simple cleaning work fills her days, and after learning how things are run, she slots herself nicely into the busy schedule. When the slave which holds the most power calls her into the parlour, she smiles blandly as she listens to her whisper and wail about having no one else to gossip to, that they must become friends otherwise she’ll lose her mind to boredom. She agrees because the opportunity is ripe and she’ll be a fool to let it rot, and taking time to have a conversation or two should be easy to adapt. 

It is. Bordae is exactly the kind of slave that gets whipped, one that steals from the leftovers and winks at the guests. The only reason she hasn’t been caught yet is that their owner is out, on business she has no privy to. Shmi doubts that it’s the legal kind of work that mothers wish their sons follow and realizes that she’s forming opinions and those can only lead to disaster. The only reason she knows this is because Bordae continues to throw such information around in their conversation without a care, and every time she hears another interesting tidbit something in her relishes at having some kind of hold on her chain. 

Such disobedience; it was clear to any slave with eyes that Bordae’s life sits on a precarious balance of luck, disdain, and ignorance. It was only a matter of time before she fell, and fall she did. 

 

\---

 

Shmi remembers the moment everything changed; she had been carefully shaving down the places where the sand had built and crystalized in corners, it’s survival only from negligence, and Bordae rushes in, the whites of her eyes showing. She grabs her arm, hard enough to turn purple, and drags her into a small shed full of unused gardening equipment. At least, she hopes its gardening equipment. 

“I'm pregnant,” Bordae hisses, and Shmi can practically see the guillotine that sits inches away from her neck, especially when she adds, “And I know who the father is.”

Turns out her friend had been dallying with their owner’s heir, a plucky young thing with a mean streak a few light years wide. The type that probably snuffed out cigars on the arms of the slave nearest to him when a tray was not in sight. To have a bastard child so soon, it would be a mark against the household and lives have been stopped for less than the deep-seated shame of being caught fucking some sort of slave-born wretch whose only job is to clean plates and make sure the cups are always full. 

It’s devastating news, and when Bordae starts muttering nonsense about confronting her midnight lover, Shmi is quick to voice her disapproval of what is, frankly, a suicidal plan. But Bordae, ridiculous, brave Bordae, set her jaw in a way that spells upcoming chaos and Shmi knows when a battle has already been lost. She can only advise her to talk to him in the most private place possible and hopes against everything she knows that he at least knows the definition for mercy. 

Of course, nothing goes as planned. 

Her owner is back, and the dining area is alive with noise as they and his companions celebrate a job done well. The alcohol flows freely, and everything is merry amongst those who sit at the table. It’s only natural that the conversation turns to what has been missed in the owner’s absence, and here several mistakes are made. 

The first, bringing up the new acquisition of the three slaves. How none are pretty, and the owner’s friends laugh with crude jokes tossed between them, banter and mirth thick in the air. 

The second, moving on to how his previous batch of help was much more easier on the eyes, especially that one with the red rings, yes, the one who has dutifully served us wine and spirits this whole evening. Hopefully, she isn’t too tired because the night’s still young-

The third, and possibly the last nail in the coffin, the owner’s heir who of course is present at the table, what sort of son would he be if he didn't welcome his old man back, scoffing at the comments, saying he’d rather lay with that crone down by the brewery than spend a night with her. 

“I’m pregnant!” Bordae shrieks, and the table, shocked silent, easily hears, _“And it’s your baby I’ve got growing in my womb!”_

Shmi wasn’t in the room; she had been carefully rearranging the stacks of woollen cloth conveniently close to the door of the dining room, but she heard it all. There’s a heartbeat of a pause, before all hell breaks loose, a loud roar of sound and the tell-a-tale screech of weapons being drawn. 

Turns out, the owner’s friends weren't really that close as she first thought. 

It’s a massacre, born from rage and the loose hit of a blaster, a knife throw gone wide, and the writhing bodies of the enraged tumble out of the room with a vengeance. Blood makes things slippery, Shmi finds, and she scrambles out the way as a man hurls a sharp piece of porcelain into someone's jugular. She ducks, spins, and crouches behind a wooden cabinet, watching with wide eyes as the men turn into monsters, with a canny aim and too sharp teeth. The house has suddenly become a battleground, and the cries of the dying are drowned out by the fighting. 

Turns out, Bordae wasn’t really a slave, but a daughter.

Shmi crawls into the back end of the dining room and sees the surprising sight of the owner’s heir cradling Bordae, face dyed red, snarling and hissing because she’s the first to bear his child, and this family of cutthroats values potency. Too bad the visiting clan, Bordae’s clan, thought otherwise, and now they rip into each other over different views and dead blood. 

Turns out, no matter what, the dead stay dead. 

Bordae is, with unsettling certainty, no longer alive and Shmi hasn’t even got the time to mourn before someone grabs her by the neck and hauls a blaster to her temple. Hostage, Shmi thinks wildly, a word she once heard in passing because she was never taught anything other than orders. Her captor, seeming to realize that Shmi’s life means nothing other than as an inconvenience, pushes her forwards and aims the blaster because a slave can still get in the way to crucial openings. 

The blaster, the slippery blood, the desperate hope that maybe it’s set to stun, all come to a head when the trigger finger _clenches-_

And there’s a moment of deafness, where the universe _croons_ her lullaby-

It’s too much and not enough and Shmi-

Shmi wakes up.

 

\---

 

The deployment of a handful of pirates finds the remains of the Bloodwrot’s base, still untouched by scavengers with a lingering atmosphere of fear. It’s riddled with blaster shots, black charred stars and long chilled slashes through hidden steel panels. Their field medic identifies the bodies neatly lined up outside the door, arms three inches apart, already beginning to rot. Sand sits in wounds, the folds of their clothes, but their faces remain clean. 

Someone’s still alive, and they’ve shown these corpses more respect than most ever had in life.

The only reason they’re here to investigate was that four days ago a distress signal was sent out only to be swiftly cut off. Probably some recruit messing with the communication controls, crime kingpin Gardulla muttered, but Lomi followed a gut instinct and pressed for a small crew to be sent to survey the area. 

She’s awfully glad that she made that decision; leaving loose ends like this is terrible for business. 

Lomi signals with steady hands to surround the area and be on guard, before stalking into the main building, eight eyes carefully peeled and nose cataloguing any changes in the air. She sees out the corner of her eyes a shadow, quicksilver fast, and turns a corner, heartbeat steady. One moment, then another, before she decides it’s safe enough to give chase, feet balanced and silent on the sandy tile. 

She reaches an archway and peers in, only to see a young Zabrak curled around a Twi’lek, both dead. They’re posed almost artfully, delicately balanced, and one could almost ignore the red rust stains that trail from their ears or the fact that they’re both missing their eyes - only empty, endless sockets left. It’s almost as if some creature had blown their brains out from the inside, and the blood and pressure escaped the only way it could. 

It’s nothing compared to the large scale splatter of a fully grown _something_ on the wall behind them, whole arteries still visible and stuck in a way that reminds Lomi of the delicate webs spun by the black-fang spiders you can find stolen away on cargo ships. There’s a certain impression of what might have been a head thrown back in agony, maybe a hand outstretched, but left for four days to fester its now mainly dried stains and the acrid stench of faecal matter and gore. 

Suddenly, Lomi’s three stomachs sink, and she spins, vibroblade at the ready, because for a split second there was something much too large looming behind her half-exposed back. It felt like an eternity, like the moment before a drop too large to survive, like a promise, and she’s aware that her two sickle protrusions by her neck are poised and ready, heart no longer steady but hyper-space fast, fueled by adrenaline and the innate desire to survive. 

A mousy, unassuming female human stands where what should of been the cause of the disaster zone that was once, probably, a dining room. Her eyes are wide and trained on Lomi’s weapon, hands raised in the universal gesture of surrender. 

Lomi is too busy cursing her own paranoia to notice a large mass of something scuttles out of sight. 

 

\---

 

Shmi’s leash has been passed onto the Geonosian who found her first, her previous owner definitely unable to give her new duties. After being interrogated, they found a loyal slave who stayed and looked after what she could and waited. Only one other survived with her, but she clawed at the hands that tried to guide her, stared holes at Shmi, and continued staring even with a blaster shot to the head. 

Lomi and her troop scoffed, chalked it up to trauma, but perhaps they should have known better.

The deaths of so many were filed down as a territory dispute gone wrong and promptly forgotten, and Lomi must have gotten something out of it because she returned to Shmi looking vaguely pleased and with a new set of orders for her to complete. She now helps out at Lomi’s fort of a house, scrubbing stains, wiping down tables and even helping out in the kitchen from time to time. Its… nicer than her previous post, mainly because she actually got a bed this time even if the room is shared, but definitely more stressful because now Lomi has expectations.

Her unusual acquisition has rendered her an interest in the eyes of the upper-crust, being the only one alive to spill the gruesome tale of what really happened down at Bloodwrot. But her story stays the same; I was lucky, I was scared, I lived to see the twin suns set along the horizon one more time. 

It gets boring fast. 

If no one sees the way her eyes flicker and gleam like she contains star-systems with her skin the only barrier between an instant end, or the way everyone relaxes when they hear her hum a strange (familiar) sounding tune, or even how sometimes she knows exactly when and where to be, then. Well. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. 

(The universe shifts and shivers)

 

\---

 

Shmi never gets a name, but she does get thoughts. They’re fleeting, like small brushes against her consciousness, but each one seems to contain multitudes. Her mind is filled with knowledge no one should conceivably know, like the exact sensation of a star being born, like the exact number of leaves seven hundred planets all in neighbouring systems have, like the exact angle required for the sun’s rays to hit oceans in a way that baths worlds white. 

It’s beautiful, indescribable, and when the whole universe seems to bend around her, whether to help her up some stairs or open a new path so she can evade sticky hands, Shmi can’t help the glee that slinks to the surface, just like that one time she sped across a sun-blessed desert. 

When night falls, she sneaks outside to where the universe seems to briefly collapse into itself only to reveal a figure, barely formed, but touchable in a way feelings aren’t. There, Shmi gets to give back, whispering secrets and clumsy poems until the sun peaks over the dunes, and in between a blink and a yawn, the figure is gone like it never existed. 

Shmi knows better though, especially when she recited a recipe for a grampple pie one night only to wake up with its smell firmly wrapped around her, gaining her odd looks and even odder ones when they notice the blinding smile that threatens to engulf her whole face. 

Life is good, and Shmi lets herself live in galaxies thousands of light years away, learning and absorbing and feeling free in a way she never expected. It’s exhilarating. 

 

\---

 

With all this new information, Shmi finally gets to grow. Before, she was crafted into the perfect household maintenance droid, except with more flesh and less circuitry. She was quick on her feet and had steady hands, and the highest she sold for was two thousand creds she’ll never see. She’s long forgotten what her parent’s looked like, faces all blending into one, and she’s long forgiven them. She knew she wanted to be a good friend; once, she tolerated another because it meant power and power meant being closer to freedom, but with that desire curbed she thinks about all the jokes she shared and longing makes its home in her supernova heart. 

It’s easier, this time, because she wants to give and the other slaves are nice, even if some do it out of respect because she was specially brought in by Lomi herself. She makes a few connections and nurtures them until they can almost be called friends. It’s only after she, in a bad gamble, manages to save a few from the whip do they truly see her amongst the fold. Her nightly excursions are given the blind eye and she gets treated her age a lot more, teasing being a firm part of that package. 

Here, surrounded by criminals, days filled with manual labour, nights filled with the unexplainable thing that can only really be defined as a _force_ , she takes root and tilts her head towards the suns. 

I will laugh, and laugh, and laugh, she thinks. Breathes. Smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> So I got totally caught up with my love for BAMF female characters who deserve the world and basically gave Shmi the keys to my house. Probably gonna keep this fairly short, but I do want to at least get to the Luke and Leia stage of the timeline hehe. Leave a kudos if you liked it!


End file.
